


you know what they say about cards

by got_spunk



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Strip Poker, a half-naked courfeyrac, a touch too much wine, and some feelings, some goofing around, some teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/got_spunk/pseuds/got_spunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She didn’t quite know how she had managed to end up back at Courfeyrac’s, playing strip poker of all things, but she’d had enough to drink at the engagement party not to care. She’d long since gotten over her crush on Marius - and there was no other word for it because, as Grantaire had reminded her a million and one times, her infatuation with Marius Pontmercy could have been the plotline of at least eight whiny teen movies – but it was one thing to be over it and another thing entirely to realize he was marrying someone else.</p><p>And so here she was, heels kicked off, in her tank and skirt, swirling a glass of wine and smirking at a shirtless Courfeyrac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you know what they say about cards

She didn’t quite know how she had managed to end up back at Courfeyrac’s, playing _strip_ _poker_ of all things, but she’d had enough to drink at the engagement party not to care. She’d long since gotten over her crush on Marius - and there was no other word for it because, as Grantaire had reminded her a million and one times, her infatuation with Marius Pontmercy could have been the plotline of at least eight whiny teen movies – but it was one thing to be over it and another thing entirely to realize he was marrying someone else.

And so here she was, heels kicked off, in her tank and skirt, swirling a glass of wine and smirking at a shirtless Courfeyrac.

“How the hell are you beating me?” he demanded, snagging the wine bottle and topping off his glass. Éponine just grinned.

“‘It’s immoral to let a sucker keep his money,’” she shrugged. “Or in this case, his clothes. Pants off, sucker.”

Glaring at her, Courfeyrac shucked his khakis off, taking a swig of the wine first.

“You like the view,” he informed her with as much dignity as he could muster in only a pair of boxers and dress socks, but his lips twitched and ruined the effect. “Admit it. That’s why you came here. To ogle me.”

“Sweetheart, I came here to get drunk and play cards,” she drawled. “You’re the one who decided to raise the stakes.” Courfeyrac shook his finger at her.

“Yeah, but you agreed, so – ”

“So?”

“So you _like_ me.”

“Oh, really?” Éponine asked wryly, finishing off her own wine. “Thanks for letting me know.” She swirled the glass a little, watching the red dregs go round and round. “Jesus, this is good. I should play strip poker with you more often.”

“Because you liiiiiiike me,” Courfeyrac sang and burst into a fit of giggles.

“I will leave,” Éponine warned him. He wrinkled his nose at her, but said nothing. A comfortable silence settled over them. Then Courfeyrac turned over onto his back, arms crossed over his chest.

“They’re, like, twenty-two,” he commented abruptly, letting his head fall to the side to stare at a spot just over her left shoulder. “I know they’re in love and I’m really happy for them both, like, Jesus, they’re perfect for each other. But still. Twenty-two.” His eyes flicked to hers, wide if a little unfocused. “ _We’re_ twenty-two.”

“Knowing Cosette’s father, it’ll be a long engagement,” Éponine replied, eyeing the wine bottle. “Are we done with cards now?”

“I guess,” Courfeyrac answered with a dramatic sigh, rolling over on his stomach. He mumbled something that sounded like, “oh, God, they’ll have _babies_ ” and Éponine groaned.

“More wine,” she muttered. Courfeyrac just sighed again.

“I’mgoing to die alone,” he said sadly while she poured herself another drink. “My best friend is engaged, off to get married and have babies and be a grown up. And I’m lying on the floor in my boxers. Because of strip poker. I _hate_ strip poker.”

“Then why did you want to play it?” Éponine asked, sipping. He shook his head, face still firmly buried in the carpet. “Courfeyrac? Sweetheart?” She set her glass aside and crawled over to him, giggling a little. “Baby,” she cooed, and he put his arms over his head. She pried them off, clucking her tongue and quickly running out of saccharine pet names. “Honey, sugar pie, _darling_ – ”

“You’re mean,” Courfeyrac grumbled petulantly, muffled by the carpet.

“Whatever,” she smirked, and, slumping fully on top of him, she nuzzled his neck. Courfeyrac was warm – only partially clothed, yes, but warm – and Éponine found that she was far too comfortable to move. Courfeyrac shifted half-heartedly.

“Gerroffme.”

“No.”

“ _Ponine_.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Courfeyrac whimpered but didn’t move again. They lay there for a long moment, so long that Éponine wondered if he’d drifted off to sleep, if she would, too. But then he stiffened, entire body going suddenly and markedly tense.

“Éponine, you’re gonna have to stop doing that,” he said very clearly.

“Doing what?”

Courfeyrac made a strangled noise.

“Your foot?” he prompted, sounding pained. Belatedly, she realized that she’d been dragging her toes up and down his leg. She grinned.

“Does it bother you?” she inquired sweetly, doing it again, slower this time, and definitely deliberate. Courfeyrac squirmed underneath her.

“You could say that,” he replied with a kind of edgy cheerfulness. She nipped his earlobe. He yelped and flailed out from under her, rolling her off of him in a tumble of limbs. She nearly clocked her head on the edge of the coffee table, but she was laughing too hard to care.

“You liiiiiike me,” she crowed, drumming her heels. Courfeyrac just curled up into a ball.

“You’re mean,” he repeated pitifully.

“And you liiiiiike me,” she sang. She grinned at him, expecting him to grin back, but unexpectedly, his face crumpled. “Courf,” she said, startled, and she crawled over to him again. “What’s wrong?” He shook his head rapidly, turning his face into the carpet.

“No, no, no,” he moaned. “I’m supposed to be comforting _you_ , not the other way around.”

“What?”

“I hate strip poker,” Courfeyrac announced almost angrily, popping his head up to glare at her before diving back down again. He sniffled wetly, said, in a tiny, heartbreaking voice, “Oh, _no_ ,” and Éponine rocked back on her heels.

“I’m sorry,” she put out after a moment, utterly dumbfounded. “We don’t have to play it anymore if you don’t want to.”

“That is not the _point_ ,” Courfeyrac insisted, and then he was quiet for a while. Éponine gently raked her nails up and down his back. “He’s my best friend and he’s getting married,” he said at last. “And that’s – really weird.”

“Yeah. It is.”

She rubbed his back for a while. She’d almost thought he’d fallen asleep when he shifted.

“You’re a good friend, Ponine,” he told her quietly.

“You, too.” He made a frustrated noise.

“No, I’m not.”

Éponine scoffed. She lay down next to him so that her face was inches from his, so that she could feel his breath tickling her cheek.

“You invited me over for strip poker even though you hate strip poker and you let me suck down two bottles of really fantastic wine,” she said dryly. “You’re a good friend.”

“Hey, I helped with that wine,” Courfeyrac mumbled, mock-indignant. Éponine laughed. He laughed, too, but it dwindled off as he watched her face.

“Why _do_ you hate strip poker?” she asked before he could open his mouth. He winced.

“I always lose,” he admitted on a yawn. “It’s not even the naked stuff, I _like_ naked stuff – ”

“It’s the losing,” Éponine finished for him. He nodded sleepily. On an impulse, she ran her finger down the slope of his nose.

“Unlucky in cards, lucky in love,” he whispered, eyes slipping closed. “Isn’t that how it goes?”

“Go to sleep,” she whispered back. He did.

Eventually, she got up off of the floor and snagged a blanket from his bedroom, because yeah, he was still in his boxers and dress socks and nothing else and he had to be cold. She paused by his bed though, lingering at his bedside table.

His alarm clock read 3:28 AM, the red numbers giving off enough light to illuminate the pictures surrounding them.

Courfeyrac wedged between Combeferre and Enjolras, an arm hooked around each and grinning like a maniac. Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire, at Corinth and raising a toast to the camera. Courfeyrac at Gavroche’s graduation, hugging the younger boy fiercely – a candid shot that Éponine had taken herself. The group photo from their trip to Texas for some protest or other. And then a smaller photo, black and white.

She remembered when it had been taken. It had been during the road trip up to D.C., and Musichetta had declared that if they didn’t stop at the godforsaken little gas station, she was going to pee all over them. They’d all clambered out, eager to stretch their legs and breathe fresh air. Jehan had been in the middle of his photography phase, she recalled.

_“It’s for the scrapbook, Éponine! Just one –  please?” Jehan bobs in front of her, camera at the ready. She swats at it, recoiling and wrinkling her nose, but she’s only half-irritated._

_“Ugh, Jehan, get that out of my face.” Abruptly someone picks her up, arms wrapped around her middle._

_“I’ve got her, Jehan – say cheese!” Courfeyrac cries right before he gets an elbow to the gut. He grunts, winded, and doubles over while Jehan howls with laughter._

_“Sorry,” Éponine gasps, but she can’t help the grin that’s spreading across her face. “Sorry, uh, elbow-jerk reaction?”_

_“I know,” Courfeyrac groans ruefully, but he, too, is grinning._

That was when Jehan had snapped the picture: Éponine with her hands propped on her hips, smirking at Courfeyrac, who had a hand pressed to his ribs and a sheepish, but wide smile.

 _3:34_ blinked the clock. She hoisted the blanket up and went to cover Courfeyrac, who was officially, completely passed out. She hugged herself, studying him, the way he snored lightly, the way his lips mouthed words only he could hear.

“I’m _good_ at cards, you stupid bastard,” she sighed. Then she smiled, because what else could she do?

She slipped a pillow under his head, made a point not to run her fingers through his hair, and curled up on the couch.

When Courfeyrac woke up, she was still there, out cold and oddly young in the too-bright morning light.

 _Twenty-two,_ he thought, standing unsteadily with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a throbbing head. Blinking groggily, he tucked the blanket around her and made a point not to kiss her forehead.

_“I think you actually bruised a rib.”_

_“Oh, quit whining, you’re fine.”_

_“You pack quite the punch, Ms. Thénardier.”_

_“Yeah, well.” Her eyes light up with a grin. “What can I say? I’m a dangerous kind of girl."_

**Author's Note:**

> if you can look me in the eye and tell me that courfeyrac wouldn't be at least a little bit upset at marius kind of leaving him behind, then i will take you into my arms and hug you, because even though i disagree with you, we should still be friends.
> 
> anyway.
> 
> come here, sit down, give me feedback, we'll cuddle, yes? yes :)


End file.
